


Change the End

by AutumnHobbit



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of shtuff, Angst, Brothers, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Sequel fic (ish)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11425089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnHobbit/pseuds/AutumnHobbit
Summary: "I'm sorry, Damian. I'm so sorry," he sobs, and when Damian reaches one of those small, thin hands up towards him he ducks down and carefully curls his hand beneath Damian's head and neck, hides his tears in Damian's messy hair. He can feel the boy's tiny form shake with weak sobs beneath him, and he wishes he could fix this. But he'd never been good at that when his pain-in-the-ass of a family were still alive, and unsurprisingly, he's not gotten any better at it now that they're dead.





	Change the End

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ode of The Lost Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3863347) by [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective). 



> Long-ish story behind this one. 
> 
> First off, this is a sequel in spirit to goodluckdetective's fic, Ode of The Lost Son: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3863347
> 
> This was one of those fics that I just _could not_ get out of my head after reading because the scenario was _so_ good and painful, I just had so many ideas for what could happen afterwards that I decided I wanted to write it, so I asked permission, which the author was kind enough to give. I went back through my drafts awhile ago and reread it, expecting to hate it, because y'all, this thing is ooooooollllllllld. I have had it sitting for like maybe a year. But to my surprise, I'm actually mostly happy with it, so why not post it. Be sure to go read the original at the link above, because B O I it is so painful and so good.
> 
> Oh yeah, and the title is from "Remember Everything" by Five Finger Death Punch.

By dumb luck or fate or whatever-the-hell, Jason's actually in the hospital when Damian wakes up. Patrol's been running him ragged, especially now that there are three fewer vigilantes keeping tabs on the city's crime. He's gotten along with Cass and Steph (so far,) but it's really more because none of them have the energy to argue beyond half-hearted insults than out of a sudden change of heart towards each other. Their only interaction is during patrol, anyway. Cass disappears to who-knows-where during the day--her non-public adoption means she has no duty to WE--and Steph actually has a life and schooling outside of crime-fighting. 

Sometimes Jason comes into the hospital like a normal person--apparently Bruce had pulled some legal strings a year or more ago to give him his identity as his ward back, and had never bothered to tell him. Sometimes he just peeks in, drops by after patrol in the early morning hours between shift changes. Every visit is basically the same. He sits and stares at the wall, the ceiling, at anything but the brat lying quiet and thin and far too still in the hospital bed. The first time he'd looked in on him he only lasted two minutes before tearing out the window and grappling away as fast as he could. He made it to a rarely-used safe house before breaking down completely and sobbing until he had nothing left. Since then, he only goes once every couple of weeks. Just enough to make sure he's still alive. Even if this is an awful parody of alive. 

Jason doesn't blame the kid for not coming back, though. He barely has anything to come back to. If he were in his right mind, he probably would have talked to someone--Alfred, someone--about letting the kid out of his misery by now. But somehow, he can't bring himself to lay a finger on him, speak a word about him. As much as he hates admitting it--which is a lot--the Demon Brat and Alfred are almost the only family he has left.

But today, someone must have finally decided he needed a break, because he's here as Jason, not as Hood. Alfred had asked him to visit Damian, and now more than ever Jason can't tell the man no. So he's sitting next to the kid's bed with a book when his heart rate starts elevating. It's not a severe enough hike to be distress, but it's more than they've gotten out of the kid in the better part of a year since it happened. Jason slams the book shut with a snap, throws it onto the chair as he leans forward. "Kid?" he whispers, pressing the call button with one hand, never taking his eyes off the younger boy. He may be imagining things...he's probably imagining things...but he could swear Damian's fingers are twitching. He shakes his head, blinks a couple times, and looks again. Damian's eyes are definitely moving beneath their lids, his Wayne brows drawing together in an expression crushingly reminiscent of Bruce.

Damnit. Now there's actual _hope_ rising in Jason's chest, and he knows if Damian doesn't wake up he might break apart and never come back together. He feels despicable, false and selfish, but he thinks about what Dick would say, how he'd talk if he were here with Damian. If he were alive.

Jason drags his hand over his eyes with a growl, shaking the thought away, before turning back to Damian. He reaches out hesitantly, grasps Damian's right hand, the one without the IV in it. It's cold and all-knuckles, rigid bones hard against his palm. "Dami. Hey, little D. You're okay. Think you can open your eyes for me?"

There's no answer for a moment, and Jason tries desperately to steel himself, to accept that he still might not wake up, to convince himself that he doesn't care or it doesn't matter. But Damian's lashes start fluttering, and he hisses around the tube in his throat, and Jason gives up on being detached. Damian's hand curls into pressure on his own, and then the door opens and a doctor and two nurses come in. Jason pulls back as much as he can--without loosening his grip, because there is no way in _hell_ he's letting go of Damian's hand--and lets them check his vitals, pupils, and breathing. They wind up removing the tube before they go to call Alfred, leaving the two of them alone. Damian hasn't said a word so far, beyond a choked little gasp when they took the tube out. His eyes are half-lidded, and though he's certainly more conscious than he has been in months, he still doesn't seem quite aware of what's going on. Jason refuses to accept it.

"Damian," he says again, a bit louder. He leans over so that he's at eye-level with the kid. "You in there, buddy?"

Damian's gaze follows him, and the boy blinks a few times. Jason can see the fog receding, his eyes a bit clearer. "Tt. Todd," he rasps, so quietly Jason can barely hear it.

Jason's not the emotional type--- _that was Dick, always Dick---_ but he has to restrain himself from collapsing against the boy in relief. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me," he says instead, brings his other hand up to Damian's temple, rubs gentle circles with his thumb. He should probably keep comforting him, say something else, but he can't think of a single word. Damian's clearly still messed up, because he leans into Jason's touch and accepts it without a bit of hesitation. The heart monitor's beeping more quickly and they're both alive and (mostly) conscious, so Jason's content to just sit and keep stroking Damian's hair back.

He's not sure how long it's been when the heart monitor spikes again, and his gaze snaps down to Damian's face in stifled panic. The boy's expression is open in horror, and his eyes snap up to meet Jason's, clear and more scared than Jason has ever seen them. "Drake?" he asks, and it sounds like he's having a hard time catching his breath.

Jason closes his eyes against the sudden stab of pain. Of course. The last thing Damian had seen before the chaos of the ride to the hospital and surgery was Tim crouched over him, trying to stem his bleeding.

Here, he departs from his older brother's style of support. Dick would have tried to distract him, hemmed and hawed out of fear for his well-being. Jason's terrified of losing him again, too, but he also knows lying won't do him a damn bit of good, no matter how well-intentioned it is. "He's gone, Damian." He grits, eyes stinging.

Damian just gazes at Jason, disbelief on his face. He lets out an unsteady breath, drops his eyes to Jason's hand wrapped around his.

"...Grayson?" he whispers shakily.

Jason can tell by his tone that he remembers what happened, already knows that their oldest brother is dead, and for some reason that hurts worse. He shakes his head, throat too tight to speak. He knows what's coming next, and it's months later and he still doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to acknowledge it, doesn't want to believe it's true. He's a damned idiot.

"Father," Damian breathes, so softly Jason can barely hear it. But he _does_ hear it, and it seems to stop the whole world, send the fragile framework he's tried to construct to hold himself up over the last several months shattering and crashing down around them. Jason tries desperately not to cry, because he knows Damian doesn't need it, and damnit, you'd think he's cried enough. He doesn't manage to stop it, though, and salty tears trickle down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Damian. I'm so _sorry,"_ he sobs, and when Damian reaches one of those small, thin hands up towards him he ducks down and carefully curls his hand beneath Damian's head and neck, hides his tears in Damian's messy hair. He can feel the boy's tiny form shake with weak sobs beneath him, and he wishes he could fix this. But he'd never been good at that when his pain-in-the-ass of a family were still alive, and unsurprisingly, he's not gotten any better at it now that they're dead.

 

***

Alfred doesn't break down. He’s a better man than Jason is, but that's always been the case. He does, however, hug Damian for a good minute, and the kid allows it, clings to the butler's jacket like a lifeline. He tries to act close to his normal persona, asks after his pets and the state of the manor, but both Jason and Alfred can see right through the facade Damian's keeping up. They don't call him on it, though. They're both too happy he's alive to care.

Steph and Cass come to visit him now that he's no longer in the ICU. Upon Cass's arrival, she and Damian cling to each other, and Damian insists at least a dozen times in his clipped British accent that it's not her fault, he doesn't blame her at all and she'd damn well better not blame herself. Jason and Steph stand uncomfortably off while the two of them have their reunion. Steph wipes silent tears off her cheeks. Jason grits his teeth until he feels like they'll break.

Afterwards, they try to keep the conversation light-hearted, which they all frankly suck at--Damian doesn't do small talk, and barely any of them have anything small to talk about. They stick to funny anecdotes from college from Steph and the like. Damian brings an end to it by demanding to know if they found the killer. They have to tell him the truth; they have no idea who it was, or where they are now. There were some leads the police turned up, and it had been their main focus during the first few months of patrolling on their own, but none of them had panned out. They don't think it was any of the usual Gotham villains. Privately, Jason thinks the city's main criminals were just as shell-shocked as the family. They might not have known Batman's secret identity, but they knew that Cass wasn't him. Hell, Penguin had willingly sent anything that might have helped them find the killer, and Selina had teamed up with them, and still did from time to time. Jason still loathes all of them---well, maybe except Selina---but he knows he doesn't have them to blame for taking his family from him. At least, not like this.

Damian stays in the hospital for another month after regaining consciousness. His wound had plenty of time to heal without him agitating it, but it was incredibly serious to begin with. His lung function is slightly compromised, and there's substantial nerve damage that will require physical therapy for a good year or more afterwards. Plus, his previous athleticism has wasted away; he can barely sit up for ten minutes without exhausting himself. Jason is in the room one time when a nurse is listening to Damian's lungs to make sure he doesn't have any fluid build-up, and the kid's ribs are all clearly visible. They'll have to bust him out of here soon and put him back on an Alfred-approved diet. Regardless, he's in no shape to be patrolling...and honestly Jason wonders if any of them will ever let Damian do anything ever again. Damian's stubborn enough that he'll probably bully his way back into the mantle eventually, but until then Jason is perfectly happy to have him securely in his civilian identity. The boy has no shortage of visitors; Jason and Alfred visit daily, Steph and Cass weekly, Colin comes whenever he can, and Clark and Diana came to see him at one point, but Jason can tell the kid is itching to be out of the hospital...even if he's dreading going home to the nearly-empty manor. He himself has been avoiding it, but now he's decided he'll go back when Damian goes home. He can't help but scoff a bit at it. How fucking typical that Bruce's deepest desire happened out of pure desperation when he wasn't around to see it.

Cass, Steph, and Babs all come along when Damian's finally released. The nurses insist on him taking a wheelchair to the car, and Damian is definitely out of sorts, because he doesn't fight them on it. Jason watches the kid a bit wearily, heart hurting at the empty expression on his face as he slouches slightly in the chair, hands limp in his lap. He knows Damian's just trying to adjust--hell, he knows what it's like, never having anyone that loved you, being shocked when you found people that did, and then having it all ripped away by life. But Damian's always been like Bruce, in that he never lets his pain show. He buries it, hides it, only lets it out when he's alone or when he just can't hide it any longer. But now he seems desolate, robbed of even the ability to bullshit his way past Alfred, and somehow Jason misses the obnoxious boasting. It feels like Damian's finally been tamed, and Jason _hates_ it.

The ride home is completely silent except for road noise. Alfred unloads as closely as he can get to one of the doors, wheels Damian inside. Titus comes bounding up immediately, which makes Damian brighten up a bit; Alfred lets him sit in the chair and pet his dog while the others come in. Alfred the cat also piles on Damian, sensing that his human is in need of all the furry affection he can get. Hell, if it'll make Damian smile, Jason'll go get the dumb cow from the cave and bring it up. Even though he hates going to the cave now.

Cass, Steph, and Babs stay for lunch. The whole thing is far too quiet; Alfred, Steph, and Babs carrying most of the conversation, while Jason and Cass sit listlessly and Damian keeps glancing around like he's expecting the others to come in and sit down any second. Damian eats a bit, mostly for Alfred's sake, and after fifteen minutes he pushes his chair back and asks to be excused. Alfred meets Jason's gaze sorrowfully before he nods at Damian, and the boy wheels off towards the elevator. The entire room heaves a sigh once he's gone, but it's not a relieved one.

_ You broke him,  _ Jason thinks accusingly at Bruce--and Dick and Tim, wherever they are.  _ You broke the baby. You wanted him showing emotion, you got it. I hope you're proud of yourselves. _

After the girls have left, and Jason helps Alfred clean up in silence, he heads upstairs. Or at least, he means to, but really he takes a few steps up and stops, just stands there. It's so quiet he can hear the grandfather clock in Bruce's office ticking, the hum of the old lightbulbs in the chandelier Dick used to swing off of. A pair of Tim's sneakers are sitting next to the foot of the stairs. 

He admits it. He'd resented Bruce's brood. Had been angry at Dick, for being so perfect and unattainable and out-of-reach when he'd needed him. Hated Tim for existing, really, when all he'd done was put the pieces together and saved Bruce from himself. Hated Damian for his arrogance and self-absorption. Hated the girls, for thinking they were better than he was, for acting superior just because they'd always followed Daddy's rules. And really, truly hated Bruce...because he'd loved him so damned much, and had been so hurt by him.

But he stands here, in what he now admits to be his father's empty house. And he fucking hates it.

He said once that he didn't do guilt. Threw it in someone's face to try and be superior to Bruce. Well, it was bullshit then and bullshit now. He does do guilt, and a lot of it. He can't stop thinking about the fact that when his brothers were killed, just going about their day, he was asleep somewhere off in space without a care in the world. He should have stopped the killers, should have protected his family, should have just fucking _been there._ But he'd been too stubborn to come home, to admit that he was wrong. Oh, Bruce was wrong, too; the man was so emotionally constipated, a huge hypocrite, self-righteous and completely unaware or uncaring of how he affected people...but he was _Bruce,_  and that alone was enough to make it all not matter anymore...or at least, not as much. 

But no. Jason had wanted to really shove it to the other bats, deny them the one thing they wanted just so he could have the last word, the last laugh. He'd wanted to come back on his own terms, not theirs, but really he was too weak to even do that. And here he is, in a manor so quiet he can hear the clock ticking. Last laugh, indeed.

He trudges up the rest of the steps, rubbing at his eyes with his hand. He pauses next to Damian's door, leans in to check on the boy. The room's empty.

Jason pulls back out, confused. Where would he have gone, if not...?

He glances down the hallway. The door is closed tightly, just as it has been for months, but he knows anyway. Jason slowly, silently opens the door.

Dick's room is immaculate, far more than it would have been if it were occupied. Everything is perfectly in place, the carpet vacuumed, the curtains and shelves dusted, the bedclothes freshly washed. Damian's curled up in a ball, so tiny in Dick's far-too-large bed, face buried in the pillow and tears drying on his cheeks. He's asleep, Jason can tell. Still sniffling quietly, but asleep.

 

***

"It's ridiculous," Damian says.

Jason sighs--damn, he's doing that a lot lately--runs his hand through his hair. The wind's really wild this morning. "I know," he says.

"He should have...a monument in downtown. Or a statue. Or a...billboard. They..." Damian chokes. "They _all_ should."

"I know," Jason says.

The Wayne Family cemetery is way back on the estate, far enough to be out of sight from the house. Damian wanted to see them, though, so Jason made the trek with him out to the graves.

They're not much to look at, honestly. Just normal headstones, free of any markings except the names and dates. The grass has mostly grown to cover them by now. Jason plucks a strand, twiddles it in his fingers as he sits in the grass across from the stones. 

(He knows his own is a few feet away, past Bruce's parents. He'd hated the case in the Cave, the one with that damned epitaph of _"A Good Soldier."_ Only when the others had been buried had he seen the real stone, which read,  _"Beloved Son.")_

"I used to think about what I wanted my stone to say," Jason says. Damian shoots him a look that's a mix of concern and shock.

"Even before I died," Jason amends. "Just for the hell of it, you know? When I was a kid, I thought it would be funny to put 'complete waste of resources' on my stone."

Damian doesn't laugh. 

Jason sighs, glances down at the knotted grass in his hands. "Now I think a better choice would be 'bury me shallow.'"

"Tt. Perfectly suits your personality," Damian mumbles, draws his knees under his chin. 

"Yeah. I guess.” Jason says.

Titus comes bounding up--Alfred must have let him out of the house--and Jason is half-way on his feet to stop the dog from bowling Damian over. Titus skids to a stop in front of Damian, though, nuzzles against him and licks his face. Damian raises a hand, pets the dog's ears, but otherwise keeps staring at the gravestones.

Jason shifts uncomfortably. He feels like he should say something--comfort Damian, something--but how the hell is he supposed to? The two of them barely know each other, and the few things they have in common are generally off-limits for discussion. He swallows. "I...I'm sorry."

Damian's as startled as he is at the words. "For what?" The kid asks, and Jason isn't sure.

"All of it, I guess, but mostly..." he sighs. "Yeah, everything. I've been really shitty to you, and..." his voice dips, "...and the others, too. I should have been there, but I was too busy trying to stick it to B...and look where that got me." He leaves the _and him_ unspoken.

Damian scoffs quietly. "Some would consider you completely justified in not being there. It would only be returning the favor."

Jason gapes. "No. _No,_ that's not the same at _all,_ it's _not_ \---"

"Why not?" Damian challenges him.

"Because..." Jason stammers. "Because it was _me._ I...I _knew_ what I was doing...!"

"No, you didn't." Damian says. "If you knew they were going to..." he swallows convulsively, but continues stubbornly, "...going to _die,_ you would have helped. But you didn't know. None of us did. Besides..." Damian swallows hard, blinks rapidly, turns his face away. "If you _had_ been there, I might really be alone now, and I couldn't...I can't..."

Jason reaches over, wraps his arm around Damian and pulls the kid against his chest. Damian clings to his shirt, presses his cheek against his collarbone. "I know I'm a shitty excuse for a big brother, Damian, and if you never wanted to see me again, I wouldn't blame you. But I'm willing to try. So...I..."

"Shut up, Todd," Damian mumbles wetly, and Jason just nods frantically. Titus rubs against his shoulder, nuzzling at Damian, and Jason rubs Titus' ears with his free hand.

The wind picks up a bit all of a sudden, and Jason glances up, realizing that it's mid-morning and it looks like it'll rain soon. He shrugs off his jacket and throws it over Damian's shoulders before scooping the younger boy up, carrying him back towards the house. Damian presses his face to Jason's neck and rubs at his eyes.

 

***

 

"Damnit," Jason swears with gusto. "What the hell...what...what  _even...._!?!"

"It's been months," Alfred says sympathetically. "Frankly, I'm shocked they haven't approached us before now."

"Well tell them they can go--" Jason snarls, but Damian peeps up quietly. "I'll do it."

Jason's head snaps to the side, to where Damian is hunched in a chair, still far too small and thin. His eyes are downcast and subdued.

"You don't have to do it, Damian---" he starts to say.

Damian scoffs weakly. "Yes I do. If I play up the emotions and give them an interview now, they'll back off for a good long while. Besides," he swallows hard, "it's been nearly a year. I should face it." He meets Jason's gaze for the first time in the conversation. "I need to face it."

Jason says nothing, but nods. Alfred, looking pained, does likewise.

"I shall endeavor to make certain that Ms. Vale is not selected," Alfred says, just a hint of steel in his voice as he turns away. Jason gives a barely-there chuckle. He can't even laugh at Vicki Vale anymore. The world really is screwed up.

As it turns out, Alfred needn't have bothered. The Times apparently still has the barest hint of human decency, because they don't send Vicki Vale. They send another reporter, one whom Jason's never heard of--no, that isn't right. He remembers meeting the man once at a gala, back when he’d been Bruce Wayne's adorable, freckled, street-kid ward. Regardless, the man’s incredibly quiet and respectful when Alfred leads him in, and is polite and gentle as can be towards Damian.

"So, how are you now, Damian? In general," he asks.

Damian gives a quiet 'tt.' "My recovery has been going well. The staff at Gotham General are reasonably skilled at their craft, and my brother and Pennyworth are nearly suffocating in their affection."

Jason swallows the bit of warmth at Damian calling him his brother, leans closer on the banister to listen. He remembers eavesdropping on Bruce from up here, a lifetime ago.

"Yes...and your adopted brother? Jason Todd? He'd been gone a long time, is that correct?"

"Yes. He went abroad often. He was overseas, when..." Damian trails off, and Jason isn't sure whether it's for dramatic effect, or is genuine.

The reporter's voice is very demure when he continues. "Yes, about that day...do you remember any of it?"

There's a long pause. "Not...not much," Damian says. "I remember...being at the gala. I heard the gunshots. I saw my older brother...my eldest brother...then I was shot, and I saw my other older brother..."

"Tim Drake?" the reporter asks, to clarify, and Jason cringes at Damian's shaky inhale, audible even from the top of the stairs. "Yes," Damian breathes, and there's another pause. "After that...there's nothing."

"I know this has been terrible for you, Damian," the reporter says sympathetically. "I just have one more question. What do you foresee in the future of Wayne Enterprises?"

Jason growls under his breath at the question. Damian was never even really involved in W.E.--he'd had no interest in it. But what bothers him more is the unspoken _"now that your dad is dead and can't run it.”_ He's shaken out of his thoughts by Damian's small voice peeping up again.

"Wayne Enterprises is in good hands with Mr. Fox. My father trusted him and he's done nothing but honor that trust. I don't see any involvement by me or my brother at any time in the foreseeable future."

"Got it." There's the sound of a pen and paper scribbling. "Well thank you so much, Damian. It was a pleasure to talk to you."

"Thank you." Jason starts. Damian's voice is nearly inaudible.

"And of course, the deepest of sympathy to you and your family, and best wishes on your continuing recovery."

 

If Damian responds, Jason can't hear him. He quickly jogs down the stairs and ducks into the sitting room as soon as he hears the reporters leaving it. Damian's gone near-boneless in the chair, staring blankly at the wall. Jason leans down, carefully picks him up  and presses Damian's forehead against his throat tenderly. "Come on, kiddo. You did great." He catches the pop of a camera flash as he heads up the stairs, and bites back his annoyance. He smirks a bit at the way Alfred is now sternly ushering the photographer out the door. He can just see tomorrow's headlines:  _ In Wake Of Wayne Family Tragedy, Prodigal Son Returns Home.  _

Let them talk. He doesn't care anymore.

 

***

 

"Something is...wrong with Damian." 

Jason's head snaps up from where he's watching the streets below them for activity. He glances at Cass. "He was fine when I left a couple hours ago. Did A say...?"

"No, not..." Cass grimaces. "Not like that," and Jason relaxes minutely. "Like what, then?" he asks, a bit more clipped than he might have been if Cass hadn't just scared him.

"He's hiding something," she says. "He's too quiet."

"Yeah, not like his entire family died or anything," Jason mutters, turning back towards the street.

"She's right," Steph says. "He's stopped insulting the tv shows I watch with him. He eats the food I give him without complaint, and he even lets me hug him goodbye when I leave."

"Maybe he just likes you?" Jason says.

"Of course he does," Steph says, unsmiling, which makes Jason glance back at her. "But he never shows it. Or openly acknowledges it. Or acts like it."

Jason sighs. He would rub his temples if he weren't wearing the helmet. "Maybe he's just realizing there's no point in pushing you away, because he won't necessarily get another chance to see you."

The girls are speechless at the not-really-hidden apology, so Jason turns around, sighing again. "Of course there's something wrong with him. He's just doing the only thing he can now."

He admits the girls have a point whenever he comes back from patrol. Damian is always waiting--sometimes in one of Tim's hoodies--feeding his cow a handful of hay. He watches while Jason puts his gear away, and is waiting when he comes back from the showers. He trails up the stairs behind him, sits quietly in the kitchen while Alfred feeds the both of them, and goes to bed without complaint afterwards. He supposes it's normal behavior for what the kid's been through, but that's the problem. Damian is anything but normal.

He wants to think he'll eventually get past it. Eventually.

But he's not really surprised to come back from patrol one night to find Alfred unharmed but locked in one of the panic rooms. There's no ransacking or anything of the sort. But Damian is gone.

And their family's bodies are, too.

Jason doesn't say a word after he frees Alfred, makes a beeline for the computer and checks for Damian's tracking signal. He shouldn't be wearing it, but his costume is also missing, so Jason takes the chance. Unsurprisingly, the tracker comes alive en route to the Middle East. Apparently Talia didn't bother to try and deactivate the tracker, either.

He can feel Alfred behind him, gazing at the screen in silence. Jason heaves a sigh, yanks his helmet off and dumps it on the table, collapses in a chair next to it.

He should be furious. Should load up this instant in the jet and fly off after him. Stop him and tell him he can't do this, that they were gone and it wasn't their right to do this to them. That none of them would want it. That _Bruce_ wouldn't want it.

But something in him just _lifts_ at the thought of having them back, and he. Well.

"What am I supposed to do?" he whispers. He didn't mean to speak out loud, but Alfred steps up behind him. He feels a hand on his shoulder, sustaining in its grip.

"Oh, my dear boys," Alfred sighs, and Jason blinks back tears. "I shouldn't let him do this. I should stop him. But..." Jason sobs, "I don't  _want to."_

"I...cannot counsel you as to the proper action to take, Master Jason," Alfred says slowly. "I am certain that I would agree with the young master far too readily. However," he says gently. "You are the only one of us who knows what this is like. So the only reasonable question is, what would you wish?"

Jason blinks his eyes shut, thinks of the sheer horror he'd felt in his first moment of awful clarity after being tossed in the Pit. The adrenaline shooting through him like fire, the pain as all his bones realigned themselves with vicious cracks and snaps, the hateful voices screaming in his head, whispering to him in his sleep.

But then he thinks of the few times he'd gone out with his brothers as the Hood since then, of the even fewer times with Bruce. Thinks of Kori and Roy smiling at him, thinks of Alfred welcoming him back. Thinks about how long they waited for him to accept his own brokenness, and theirs. Thinks about how, when he'd woken in the Pit, the one thing he'd wanted more than anything in the world was just someone he knew and loved.

And the decision isn't really that hard at all.

He stands up, grabbing his helmet. "I'm going to need to take the jet," he says. "Call Cass and Steph and Babs. We're going to need all the help we can get when we..." he swallows. "...when we bring them back."

Alfred nods. "Right away, Master Jason." 

 

***

 

The guards Talia has posted are total losers. Jason takes down fifteen of them all by his lonesome with ease. The two at the door at least seem to be trying to adequately guard, but look absolutely pitiful as they clutch their staffs tighter, assume fighting positions. Jason would try to get them to move, but a sound from inside has him ignoring their existences completely. It's a blood-curdling shriek, agonized and terrified and almost inhuman. 

And he knows the voice. It's Tim.

He probably bowls the guards over in his rush down the corridor. He doesn't know or care. He bursts into the main antechamber at full speed. He doesn't see Talia and her guards start in shock at his appearance. Doesn't see Damian sitting on the floor with Dick's head in his lap. Doesn't see the remaining body bag a few feet from Damian. He's too busy running, stripping off everything but his jeans, and jumping into the Pit himself. The musty smell of it disgusts him, makes him want to puke, but he ignores it as he wades out to where Tim is thrashing. He's not really screaming anymore, his voice breaking in an on-and-off choking noise. His wound had been to his spine, and if he'd survived he likely would've been paralyzed. As it is, he's kicking and inexorably moving towards the edge of the pool.

Jason throws his arms around him as soon as he reaches him, pulls him back against his chest. Tim panics, claws at Jason's arm with overgrown nails and draws blood--the cuts immediately heal from the fumes of the Pit--and Jason grabs his wrist firmly but as gently. "Timmy," he says desperately--and he can't remember the last time he called the kid by his name--"Tim, it's me. It's Jason. You remember me?"

Tim screams, kicks violently at Jason's shin. Jason tries to hold him more tightly, to prevent him from moving, but his Pit-induced strength makes him hard to pin down.

Jason grunts, pulls Tim and turns him around to face him. Tim's blue eyes are green-tinged and wild, his expression one of confusion and terror. "Tim, you're alright. You remember what happened?" 

Tim's breath is coming in gasps, but he loosens his grip slightly, seemingly thinking, and Jason watches him carefully. He clenches his eyes shut for a long moment, sweat breaking out on his forehead, and seems to force the fear down. A good deal of tension leaves his body, and he would sink below the surface if Jason's hands weren't grasping his arms.

"Jason," Tim says breathlessly. Jason almost laughs in relief, but doesn't. "Yeah, it's me. You think you'll be okay up there with Damian?"

Tim nods sharply, so Jason throws Tim's arm around his shoulder, picks him up and carries him to the edge of the Pit. Damian's waiting for him, and takes one of Tim's arms to pull him out. He also injects a sedative into his arm. Jason catches Tim when he crumples, places his limp, breathing, _living_ form on the floor. He scrambles up after him, panting but probably more elated than he should be. He meets Damian's gaze and sees a similar relief there. Dick's clearly been sedated, too, and Damian goes back to sitting with his big brother's head resting on his thigh.

There's a splash and a scream that raises all the hairs on Jason's neck echoes through the cave. Jason whips his head to the side, relief evaporating.  _Bruce._

 

He slips back off the ledge and into the Pit, but hesitates for a moment. Bruce is intimidating enough normally, but him in the Pit--which he expressly disdained---out of his mind, most likely angry and confused is more than a little terrifying. But he lost his chance last time, and he knows that no matter what, he's still Bruce's son. He  _ knows _ . So he steps forward carefully, extends his hands, and wishes it were anyone but him who had to convince the Batman to calm down. It's probably not the best idea to use stealth in this case; Bruce always seemed to know what you were up to. So Jason surges forward as quickly as he can, gets in front of Bruce and tries to look as un-threatening as possible. Even as he does, his heart pounds and fear is swimming in his mind; he can't tell whether it's him or the Pit anymore. What if Bruce doesn't remember him? What if he thinks Jason is the one who killed him? What if he blames him for not being there? What if he only remembers him as the failure who hated him? What if he refuses to listen, because Jason never gave  _ him _ a chance? 

But the moment Bruce sees him, his face  _ crumples _ and he stumbles back, water splashing everywhere as he tries to get away, and Jason can't think because how is Bruce--the damned  _ Batman _ \--afraid of  _ him? _

"Bruce," he cries, a bit choked, and takes a few strides towards him. He can hear Bruce mumbling something over and over, to himself or to the voices. He gets closer and his chest clenches.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," his mentor--his  _ father- _ -keeps saying like a mantra.

“B," Jason gasps, reaches for his hand, gets his wrist. Bruce goes to wrench his arm from Jason's grip, but freezes when he sees Jason's hand. His eyes go from the hand up Jason's arm to his face--which is probably looking utterly wrecked at the moment--and he continues gasping, "I'm sorry, Jason. I failed you. I failed you and I let you die and I should have been there and I'm so  _ sorry..." _

"Look at me, Bruce," Jason begs, grabs his father's chin and turns it to meet his own unmasked gaze. "I'm here. I'm okay. I promise.”

Bruce still looks confused, keeps going. "...even after you came back, I never really tried to help you, I stayed away because I was afraid that you didn't want to come home, I didn't want to be reminded of how much I'd failed you and your brothers, and everyone...I didn't want to admit it to myself, and I left you alone..."

"Then don't," Jason pleads forcefully. "I know what you did, and what I did, and I don't care anymore. I just..." he sobs, "...I just want my family back. Please,  _ please _ come on. Come home, Dad.  _ Please." _

Bruce is frozen, staring uncomprehendingly at Jason, and if he keeps fighting Jason's not sure he can take it. His chest is heaving from his sobs, eyes stinging, and he's barely keeping his hands steady. If the others are still here, he can't hear them, and he doesn't care. All he wants is some reassurance that they can fix this, that they can get another chance and that he won't have to live the rest of his life knowing that he had a family that loved him, but that he'd spat in their faces a time too many to ever be theirs again.

"Jason," Bruce says, and Jason cringes, expecting more raving. But then Bruce's thumb is wiping a tear from his cheek, calloused and warm, and Jason takes a step forward and throws his arms in a vice grip around him.

"Dad," he sobs, and feels Bruce's grip tighten to near-painful levels.

He finally pulls back, because he knows they need to get out of here. "Come on," he says, leads Bruce by his hand to the edge of the Pit. Damian's waiting again with the sedatives, and Steph and Cass have apparently arrived at some point, because they help lift Bruce out of the Pit and onto the ground. Jason can't help but give Damian a look of hysterical vexation. "You couldn't have intervened a little earlier, pipsqueak?"

"It needed to be said," Damian says, in a very bad imitation of his haughty manner. It's the unsteadiness that gives him away.

Jason rolls his eyes, glances around. Talia and her goons have cleared out. He knows they'll be back to destroy the Pit in a few hours, but at the moment he doesn't care. Cass tosses him a shirt and a bottle of water, and he quickly uncaps the water and pours it on his head to rinse the Lazarus out of his hair. He pulls the shirt on, and is startled when Steph comes from out of nowhere and crushes him in a hug. He awkwardly pats her back, and she smiles through her tears at him, pulls him towards the jet. Cass is a few steps ahead, carrying Damian--the kid's still not fully healed, and today has been incredibly trying.

Steph disappears into the cockpit inside, and Jason is left standing in the hold. Damian's strapped in next to the others, grasping Tim's hand. It's the only thing he can reach. Jason straps in next to Damian, hooks his arm around his youngest brother's neck and strokes his hair. He knows it'll be an ugly recovery when they get home, but right now he's content to fall asleep next to Damian and his brothers on the long flight home.

 

***

 

It takes a good three days before any of the occupants of the Manor are anywhere close to functioning. Between the chaos of getting everyone home, fed and cleaned up and rested, tied in with raging emotions from various family members, it's half-way into the next week before any of them can really sit down and talk. But Jason can sense the talk coming, and so winds up in the Cave, sitting at the main table, staring off into space. Sure enough, Bruce wanders out of the medbay a few minutes later, in sweats, and Jason can't help himself from drinking in the sight of him alive and walking. He and Damian--and probably Alfred, too, but he's more subtle about it--have been doing it for the last few days. He's pretty sure the others don't like it, but can't bring himself to care. Looking at it now, he wonders if they felt similar when they saw him.

Bruce sits down across from Jason at the table. He doesn't say anything for a moment, and Jason buries the urge to roll his eyes. Still as hesitant and socially-inept as ever.

"How..." Bruce pauses. "How's patrol been treating you?"

Jason shrugs. "Not terribly. It's Gotham, but beyond that, it's been fairly calm. Cass is fucking terrifying, so."

Bruce nods demurely, traces a fingertip across the tabletop. "How's the...press been? About...?"

Jason sighs. "It was a big deal. Alfred and Babs and the Commissioner did as much as they could to keep them in check, but...there's no way we could come up with a conceivable answer to you three being alive. There were too many people at the ceremony, the Commissioner was there, and...everyone saw the videos."

Jason can't help but feel kind of dizzy at the implications. There's nothing stopping Bruce and the others from patrolling--which makes his stomach clench in a whole other way--but there's no way they can ever be their civilian identities again. So far as the public is concerned, Bruce Wayne and two of his adopted sons were murdered over a year ago.

If it bothers Bruce, he doesn't let on. He still doesn't make eye contact with Jason, though. "What...what about you?"

Jason's head snaps up. "What?"

"You. How...how've you been dealing?"

Jason opens and closes his mouth a few times. "I...I..." He growls at his inability to form a sentence. "I survived. But...I never want to do that again. Like, _ever._ No way in hell."

"Are you...living here, now?" Bruce asks almost delicately, and Jason furrows his brow. "Well, I've been here the entire time you've.." he trails off incredulously. "Are you asking if I'm staying!?"

Bruce meets his gaze for the first time, looks incredibly guilty. "You...you don't owe us anything, Jason. If you don't want to..."

 _"Like hell I don't!"_ Jason bursts out. "I let you die, I didn't stop Damian from bringing you back, and I've been a self-absorbed bastard since I came back. I..." he breaks off. "I don't want to dance around each other anymore. Please."

Bruce looks shocked, and Jason wonders if he remembers anything of their conversation in the Pit. "Look, B. I'm not exonerating you at all...you did mess up with me, and I was really furious with you." He watches Bruce flinch at every point in the sentence. "But...I missed you all so much, and I hated myself for how stubborn I was before. I don't care anymore. I'll forgive you, if you'll forgive me. I'll move on if you will, too."

Bruce is quiet, and Jason watches him carefully for any tells. Finally, he nods. "I'll try. I promise."

Jason sighs, flops his head down on his arms again. "Good."

 

***

 

Jason knew things were going to be different, but he started to realize just how different within the first week. When he was still Robin, and had a nightmare--usually about some silly little thing, his mom or Bruce hating him or Bruce dying and leaving him alone--he would go to Dick sometimes, if he was there and not in a bad mood. Now, Jason wakes up at some stupid hour of the morning to find Dick or Tim standing next to his bed or curled up in a fetal position beside him. He tries to help them however he can, but he knows the first few months are tough, regardless.

_ (Actually, the whole damned thing is tough, but he doesn't say so.) _

He can see the differences in their personalities show even more through this. Tim becomes pretty scary when he has Pit rage; he goes quiet and cold, and it takes a lot of work to wind him down. Dick lashes out at tiny threats to his family, and hates himself for it the rest of the day. Bruce? Jason can't tell what he does. It's a little sad that his behavior seems nearly the same on a Lazarus Pit as it did on a normal basis before.

Without a doubt, the hardest day for Jason is the day they start patrolling again. Steph and Cass come into the Cave for the first time since the others have been back. Bruce takes Cassandra aside, doubtless to thank her for being Batman in his absence, and Jason is left cleaning his guns while Dick suits up. He can't help but steal glances at his older brother as he does so, watching the tight line of his lips and the one curl that keeps falling into his face that he brushes away in irritation.

He's not sure why he's so scared of this. Hell, they died as civilians, maybe they might not have if they had been their alter-egos. Maybe they would have sensed something off, been able to fight back. Jason knows more than anyone that they need to have something to hold onto, something they can do and contribute to and control. But that doesn't stop him from feeling sick.

Dick glances up, and Jason quickly turns his gaze back to his guns. 

Dick's face hardens. "We have to do this."

"I know," Jason says quietly.

"It's all we have left," Dick says hotly, and Jason winces, still not meeting his gaze. "I know," he says again.

Dick sighs shakily. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay," Jason mumbles.

"I know I'm not doing myself any favors acting like this, Jase, but I just..." he sighs. "...It's so hard."

"Yep." Jason says. "Good thing our heads are harder."

Dick smiles, and so does Jason.

 

***

 

Jason runs faster than he ever has, tackles Captain Boomerang to the ground. The knife lodges in his upper arm as they fall. He doesn't make a sound, but grits his teeth as he and the criminal hit the ground. He twists, plants his knee in Captain Boomerang's back, clicks cuffs into place around his wrists. When he looks up, Tim has already disappeared. 

With a sigh, he calls the GCPD to pick up the dirtbag and climbs out a window to hunt down his errant younger brother.

Tim's not anywhere special or particularly meaningful; just sitting on a rooftop downtown, knees curled beneath his chin, back to an exhaust pipe to keep warm. His breath makes a cloud of pale mist in the air. Jason drops down next to him in a heap, tears a piece of his shirt off to wrap around the hilt of the knife. Wouldn't do to bleed out, let alone bleed all over this roof.

"You're welcome, by the way," Jason mutters. Tim doesn't react. His white out lenses reveal nothing of his thoughts. The tension coiling his whole body is easy to read, though, and Jason remembers the wild strength in his skinny body when he'd first been resurrected.

There's a good hour of near-silence, only the late-night traffic and quiet city noises between them, and between the peace and the blood loss Jason's halfway asleep before Tim speaks, nearly inaudibly.

“He deserved it."

Jason shakes himself awake, glances at Tim. His jaw is hard, white-out lenses somehow looking more menacing now that they're turned towards Jason. "Deserves it."

Jason holds Tim's masked gaze for a moment, then turns and flops his head back against the pipe with a sigh. "I'm not gonna argue with you there," he says tiredly. "But you're a better person than I am, Timbers. That's not for you.”

"No, I'm not," Tim says, and Jason blinks, trying to figure out what he's referring to. Oh. The good person thing.

"Sorry about your arm," Tim mutters, and Jason snorts quietly. "Eh. It happens." He glances back at Tim. Dawn's coming soon; there are tinges of light just beginning to lick the horizon. It makes an interesting contrast against the black of Tim's cowl.

"Sorry I thwarted you."

Tim's lips quirk, just the slightest bit. But his voice is dead serious when he says, "I'm not."

 

***

 

Jason has both arms around Bruce's midsection, pulling against him with all his strength. Dick, who's been having a fairly decent day, is trying to help him, digging his feet against the asphalt as hard as he can. The scraping sounds coming from his boots are almost as awful as the barely audible gurgles of pain from the man Bruce is beating to death.

What's worse is Tim's increasingly panicked breaths several feet behind them as he presses his hands to the wound in Damian's shoulder. It's really not that bad, a through-and-through, but Damian was taken by surprise and gave a small, high scream of pain as the bullet tore through him, and Tim snapped. The hammering of Jason's heart against his ribs turns to a stab of pain when he realizes that this is what happened when Tim had died. He hadn't known whether Damian had lived or not, and knowing him, probably fretted about the child in his subconscious even as he died on the operating table.

"Batman, stop!" Jason snaps at his rebelling-father-figure. "He's alright. Robin's fine. It's not worth it."

This scares him about Bruce. The intensity had always scared him, but now there're no words of retort shouted at him, no kickback at all. Bruce is completely silent as he fractures the shooter's jaw in the fourteenth place. It's like he can't even hear them.

"Come on, B," Dick pleads, and from the tension in his voice Jason can tell that he's aching to run to Damian himself--or to shove Bruce out of the way and lay into the criminal, too. But he doesn't.

"F-Father?" Damian gasps in a tiny, hoarse voice, and Bruce pauses. "Father, please," Damian breathes, eyelids drooping shut, and Bruce drops both fists and turns on his heel, dropping to his knees beside Damian and Tim and digging in his utility belt. He pulls a square of adhesive gauze from one of the compartments, slides his hands under Tim's and presses it to the wound. Tim lifts his bloody hands away from Damian, holds them palms open a bit away from his body.

Bruce starts to pick Damian up, then pauses. Even under the cowl, Jason can see his features hardening into that impenetrable mask that Jason had hated so when he was Robin...and in all honesty, afterward as well. 

"Nightwing," he says flatly, and Dick blinks, turns his masked gaze to Jason's in a look of mutual concern.

"Get him back to the Cave." Bruce stands, takes a few steps back. Damian's lashes flutter, and his hand curls and uncurls on the pavement, reaching out weakly. "Father.." he whispers, and Bruce backs away, then runs. 

Dick is shell-shocked, but hurries forward and gathers Damian into his arms like he's made of glass, kisses his hair and strokes it while murmuring a whole lot of nothing very soothingly. Jason steps behind Tim, wraps an arm around his shoulder. The younger boy leans heavily on him until the Batmobile pulls up on autopilot. As they load up, Jason glances at Damian to gauge his condition. Definitely moderate blood loss--his lips are tinged blue and his warm brown skin is washed-out--but his blank, hopeless expression and the tears sliding down his cheeks are worse.

There's no sign of Bruce when they reach the Batcave. Alfred tends to Damian's wound in silence. The others shower and head upstairs in silence. Jason sits beside Damian after they're all gone to bed. Damian seems semi-conscious, eyes half-lidded and fixed on the ceiling. Jason's nearly dozed off when Damian speaks out of nowhere, barely audibly and sounding far too young. "Did I make a mistake?"

Jason closes his eyes. He doesn't answer. He can't.

But he gets up, slips his hands beneath Damian's shoulders and knees, and very carefully raises him up. He slides into the bed beneath him and wraps his arms around the small boy. Damian's cold hands wrap around his where they're folded around his stomach.

 

***

 

Jason isn't sure how it happens. All he knows is that he and Dick are somewhere in the south side of Gotham, in the middle of a turf war between two drug gangs, and taking down thugs left and right. Today's been decent, and everyone's been in fairly good tempers all day.

Then something hits the left side of Jason's chest like a pile driver, and he's hitting the ground before he knows what's happened.

Jason knows a lot about guns; the different kinds, how powerful they are, which rounds they use. He knows what hollow point bullets do to human bodies.

But damn, it hurts. It  _burns_ , fire in his chest that swells into the rest of him, and for a long, awful moment, he can't breathe. Black spots dance before his eyes, and he forces himself to drag in a gasp, even though it hurts. It helps a bit, eases the roaring in his ears. Then he realizes that the roaring wasn't just in his head. 

He can't lift his head far--the edges of his vision blacken again, and he can feel his ribs grinding together--but he can hear Dick's wordless scream of rage clearly, and the loud, violent thunks of his escrima sticks crushing bones. He tries to call him, but he feels something inside him give, and hot, sticky blood wells up in his throat rapidly. His brother's name changes into a high, gurgling exhale. Probably a good thing, anyway--he was trying to call him by his real name.

Somehow Dick hears it, though, because he's dispatching the last thug, running back in Jason's direction and skidding to his knees in the growing pool of blood. Jason's helmet is yanked off suddenly and violently.

"Jason. Shit, Jase, don't you dare," Dick growls brokenly, out of breath, and Jason glances down at his chest, vaguely startled by Dick's reaction. He blinks back shock at the gaping hole, blood already completely soaking his uniform, sticking it to his chest. 

Dick's hands are suddenly on his face, and he can hear his older brother's voice rising an octave. He tries to figure out what his problem is, then realizes--oh, he's choking. He turns his head as much as he can, gags. Blood flecks his lips and splatters on the pavement, but his airway is momentarily clear.

Dick's hands are prodding his chest, then suddenly pressing down hard, and Jason would scream if he had any air to do so with. As it is, he only manages a hitching inhale. He can hear blood rattling in his throat. He feels really cold, but too hot at the same time.

The rushing in his ears grows louder again, closer. It really hurts to breathe, and he's having a hard time focusing. He makes a sound resembling a whimper when someone touches him, even though they're so gentle. They ghost their fingers along the edges of the wound before coming back beneath his knees and shoulders, lifting him. He doesn't want to move. He wants to go sleep so badly...but there're insistent voices close to his ear and hands cupping his cheeks, shaking him. A voice very far away is demanding that he stay awake.

He's sweating and shaking, which just exacerbates the pain pulsing through his whole body, but he's so, so cold. He feels like he's drowning. Blood is trickling down his lips and chin, irritating as hell. It's not as irritating as the pressure in his chest, like a fist squeezing his lungs. He's swallowing air in tiny sips, and he knows it's not enough. His mind is in a mix between frantic screaming that he can't breathe, and being too tired and lethargic to care.

Just as he's sure he can't take another breath, white hot pain jabs into his collarbone. He has no breath left to scream, but suddenly the pressure is easing, and he gulps in as much air as he can without moving too much. As the hypoxia fades, his other senses start to come back on slowly, and he feels a hand buried in his hair, stroking soothingly, and a voice wet with tears murmuring reassurances.

"Dick," he wheezes faintly. The name is barely audible even to him, and he realizes there's a mask over his nose and mouth. He can't summon the strength to open his eyes.

"Shhh, Jay. It's alright. Just hang in there for me, okay? We're almost home."

Damn, Dick sounds wrecked. Always the overreactions from him. It's not like he's dying or anything. Jason feels his eyes rolling back into his head, and he gives in and passes out.

He wakes up with a raw, sharp burn in his chest. He's 95% incoherent from the painkillers he's undoubtedly on, and has only the energy to shift slightly and set his body back to screaming at him before he drifts off again.

The next time he wakes up, he's fairly certain he's feverish. One because the sheets are soaked and his hair is dripping with sweat, and two because Damian is curled up asleep beside him, Dick and Tim are on the foot of the bed, and Bruce is in a chair next to him. He tosses his head, and his vision swims sickeningly. He must moan or something, because Damian springs up rapidly--his form wavers and Jason squints to try and see him more clearly--and cradles Jason's face with both his small hands. Okay, now he _knows_ he's hallucinating.

"Todd? You're alright. Father!" he calls over his shoulder. The little demon's voice sounds oddly unsteady. Must be the fever.  Bruce jolts in the chair, sitting bolt upright before his eyes even open. Damian continues stroking his thumb down Jason's cheek gently, mumbling vaguely comforting things in his high, clipped voice. Jason knows this is a dream, but it's really nice, so he lets it slide.

Suddenly Bruce is beside him as if he'd teleported there, and he's gently detaching Damian from Jason's side, setting him on his feet on the floor. There's suddenly a cool hand on his forehead. Jason leans in with an almost inhuman sound of relief. Bruce, however, hisses. "Damn it, Jason," he mutters, worry in his tone. "You're burning up."

Despite the curse, he traces his fingers over Jason's scalp, carding through his wet bangs. Jason thinks he's probably pretty close to purring. But all too quickly the hand pulls away, and Jason tries not to feel too rejected.

He starts to drift off again, the sounds of the room ebbing and fading like waves. He hesitates in allowing himself to go, a twinge of familiar fear of being left alone thrumming in his chest. He can vaguely hear a heart monitor speeding up. Just as he's about to have a full-blown panic attack while half-asleep, he feels something blessedly cold pressed to his forehead, and another hand curling into his. He smiles faintly and goes back to sleep.

He's barely awake for two seconds the next time when there's suddenly a hundred and forty pounds of acrobat attached to him desperately. Dick's arms are tight around his shoulders and he's fairly certain he's coherent enough to not be imagining the dampness of his skin where Dick's face is pressed against his neck.

"I'm sorry, Jay, it was all my fault, I'm so, so sorry..." Dick sobs, and Jason blinks. "Wha...?" He tries to raise his arms, hisses a bit at the swelling of pain in his chest at the motion, and Dick cries harder, his grip tightening even further. 

Jason has the inappropriate urge to laugh. Instead, he lifts his right hand--which oddly enough doesn't cause as much pain--and lays it on Dick's back, stroking his t-shirt with his thumb.

"S'okay. I'm fine." He can't stifle a borderline hysterical laugh. "Takes more than that to get rid of me."

Dick's shoulders are shaking, and Jason clutches his shoulder as he gasps out, "Y-you, you were on a ventilator for two days, and you're still running a 102 fever. I--you could have died, and I didn't stop it. I didn't..."

"Hey. Shhh. I didn't. I'm here." Jason moves his hand to Dick's hair, runs his fingers from the top of his brother's head to the back of his neck. He hopes Dick can't hear the rasp in his voice that has made itself known in less than two sentences.

Dick sobs for a good five minutes, and Jason is beginning to panic over how to deal with this. Should he try to get him to talk? Shove him and tell him to calm down? He's honestly considering just going to sleep to avoid the whole thing. 

He thinks Dick's maybe starting to calm down? Sort of? His cries turned to hiccups a minute ago, and now his breathing's just hitching faintly. He hasn't moved from where he's pressing his forehead against Jason's uninjured shoulder, though. Jason hesitantly raises his hand, awkwardly holding it just an inch from Dick for a solid fifteen seconds. He's really not cut out for this sort of thing.

"I can't do this without you," Dick whispers, voice hoarse from crying, and damn, just shoot him again, why don't they?

_(It's an accurate metaphor for his family, actually. And then he starts humming You Give Love A Bad Name in his head. He is so high.)_

As it is, he heaves a sigh. "I know," he finally mumbles, laying his hand on Dick's shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

 


End file.
